


and exodus drew us from heaven,

by Ariasune (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, crazy theories, dogma is a cool film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God dies with spoilers on her tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and exodus drew us from heaven,

**Author's Note:**

> I have an interesting headcanon on the role of human suffering in the grand scheme of things, and this piece comes from how I'd write my headcanon into the series. Alanna Morisette appearance is a blatant reference to Dogma as some of the best casting yet.

The young woman was silent, fingertips resting delicately in Castiel’s hair, and when Dean entered and swore at her, she smiled sadly at him, but continued to stroke the thoroughly passed out Cas. Edging round her, Dean reached for his gun – but it was gone, like smoke – so he went for Castiel’s blade – and it melted into nothing. Finally he settled with approaching the girl, body taunt for attack.

“Don’t worry,” She said with a gentle grin. “I’m going soon.”

“You look like Alanna Morisette.” Dean said blankly.

“Oh that’s nice,” The woman laughed softly. “I like Alanna Morisette.” She redirected her attention to Cas. “I forget sometimes how carefully angels are created.”

“Why won’t he wake up?” Castiel should be wide-awake and alert from at the least Dean’s loud roars. Sam should be bursting into the room.

“He can’t be awake for the procedure.”

“Procedure? What fucking procedure?”

She looked at him with so much tolerance, Dean wanted to punch her but really couldn’t think why he couldn’t.

“Would it help if I told you I’m God?” She queried sunnily. “Well,” Looked to the side. “Sort of. A God.”

“Pagan?” Dean was pretty sure he had a decent stake in the impala.

“No, _his_ God.” She nodded at Castiel. “What I mean is I didn’t make him, although I remember it…” She shook her head in wonder. “I forget sometimes about that, but then I see the edges of his parts and I remember crafting them. Everytime I refashion this angel, I remember how to bring him into existence.” She laughs giddily. “It’s weird.”

Dean keeps his mouth shut, still shifting foot to foot when she pats next to her.

“You’re here because I need your help, sorry.” She beams at him and then scowls. “I’m Jesus, you can call me Josh. Sit down already Dean.”

“Look,” Dean snarls, voice strained. “I have seen a lot of strange fucking things but-”

“But God is just a bit too much, then?” Josh rolled her eyes.

“I don’t actually give a damn if you are God.” Dean hisses at her, and approaches, violence in his stance. “God is an absentee dad who lets the world go to fucking h-”

“Yeah, well, I’m dying,” Josh snaps, more than a little self-pity in her voice. “Sue me if that’s a bigger deal.”

That draws Dean up short.

“Dying?”

“Mhm, it does suck doesn’t it?” Josh threads her fingers back in Castiel’s hair. “But it’s okay, like I said I didn’t make this angel here.”

“He’s not an angel.”

“Oh,” Josh giggles. “He is a little, but doncha worry Dean,” Josh pulls her hands away and pats down next to her again. “Point is, this isn’t the first time a God has died. Not going to be the last. I’ve been working on my replacement.”

Dean uneasily settles as far away from the woman as possible.

“Stop being twitchy.” Josh fixes Dean with an intolerant look, full of old testament and ringing reality and Dean’s heart gasps in his chest. Stuttering and panting.

“You’re God.”

“Yes, and I’m sorry.” Josh, God even, says quite seriously. “For what you’ve been through, but come on,” Dean edges towards her when she beckons. “Help me rethread grace into wings?”

Josh’s hands swim with glinting light, dancing through her fingertips.

“What do I do?”

She reaches out with a tendril of gleaming white, and traces a dancing symbol into Castiel’s chest. “His name,” She writes it out again. “You got that?” She pools a handful of grace into Dean’s hands. “Have at it whilst I work on something.”

And she’s there composing more grace in her hands and gingerly – memory clean on the symbol – Dean reaches out to trace the symbol in Castiel’s chest. As he works feathers slide into existence, layering and overlapping. Brown and reddish and flecked with white.

Josh reaches out to lightly adjust them, stroke them into order, and they darken at her touch, the darkness crawling through the feathers and leaving them a glossy, inky black.

“Why’d they go dark?”

Josh shrugged. “Hell burns all wings, and I wouldn’t want to take his achievement from him.”

“That whole raise me from perdition thing?”

“Mhm,” She pooled the last of the grace into Dean’s hands. “That should be the foundations.” Castiel squirmed as Dean wrote the sigils in flickering, fading white. “As I was saying, I happen to be dying.”

“And that you were doing something about that.”

“It’s a bit of a tight schedule,” Josh grimaced. “The past thirty years have not been good on my batteries, nothing’s ready for a smooth change over.”

“Well,” Dean coils the last of the grace into a symbol. “What is going to happen?”

She sniffed. “You think you’ve lived in a godless universe, but wait until you have to, because that’s what is going to happen.” She gazed down at Castiel. “As soon as I’m done here, I’m done, the last crucifixion of Jesus Christ.”

“You’re kidding.” Dean muttered, eying Josh.

“Not even, that’s why you’re here. You need to pass a message on for me to this guy.” Josh reached forward to run her hands in Castiel’s feathers. “God knows,” She looked a mite cheeky. “I’ve had to interfere far too much to keep this fellow from dying,” She gave Dean an intolerant frown of frustration. “And you as well – always before your time. Ah well. Castiel will keep things on schedule.”

“Schedule?”

A high, universe-peeling laugh.

“Well we’re off schedule heavily, but he’ll make sure we actually get a fresh God.” She looks at Dean quite seriously. “I am really sorry, it wasn’t meant to happen like this, you were meant to have so much longer, so much less pain, I swear.”

“Oh well that’s the Winchesters for you,” Dean muttered. “Managing your heavenly dirty work.”

“You have no idea,” Joshua gazed fondly at Dean and then directed the same loving gaze towards Castiel. “After all the strength and ferocity and brilliance I put into my angels, I forget sometimes about Tuesday’s angel.”

Castiel worms closer to Josh’ hand, pressing against it in his sleep, a slight whine in his throat. A half-blind kitten curling next to its mother. An angel in threadbare clothes and too much stubble and a cheap motel bed, asleep and still waiting on the touch of its creator. Josh hums lightly, brushing her fingers over Castiel’s brow, and curls over to kiss his forehead.

“If you could lead your full life,” Josh says quietly to Dean, eyes pricking with tears. “I would give it to you in a heartbeat, I would, but I don’t have any heartbeats left.”

“The Greater Good.” Dean says stiffly, mind flickering over Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. Trying to avoid the fact God has just told him he’s going to die, because normally he’d rage and object but there is something so final, so shattering, so heart-breaking – as though the universe is crying out at the idea of it – that makes Dean realize on some bone-deep, blood-bound level he can’t outrun this death. “Will Sam…?”

“Sam will be fine.” She assures. “Have Castiel make him better and pull Ezekiel from him.” She nods at Cas’ wings. “Archangel. I might as well have one.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Tell Castiel I grant him the final breaths of God to unsay my words.” And she leans over to kiss Dean across the brow as well, openly crying. “Tell him to rent my tablets apart, and to pry loose my world for my successor. He’ll know. His faith will show the way, even though-” She hiccoughs. “Even though the world will be barren without me and, follow the faith of my Castiel.”

“I-” Dean begins, but she curls over and a jagged bundle of shards rest in her fingertips. She strikes them into Castiel with a violent gentleness. Curls over the angel and murmurs apologies to them both.

And God dies.

Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with sorry, I’m so sorry, so so sorry written deep into the universe, pounding against Dean’s head. There is an ache that flares deep in Dean, Castiel whines in his sleep feathers flickering and flapping instinctively in distress. The world mourns. It mourns deep within itself. There is nothing that could not feel the hum of despair, of grief, of how on earth and heaven and hell could anyone have thought God gone, because this deep, painful ache? This is **gone**.


End file.
